Chapter 6 - The Corridor Engagement
6 - 15
The tactical operator took two slow, calculated steps into the foyer, his carbine barrel sweeping the perimeter with practiced precision. The infrared laser mounted beneath the barrel flickered a pale, deadly green against the wainscoting. Behind him, the second operator moved into position on the porch, covering the threshold with his own suppressed weapon, ensuring no one could escape through the front entrance.
Rachel didn't wait for them to clear the corner.
In confined spaces, distance was the enemy of the outnumbered. She lunged forward from the shadow of the dining room archway, her movements silent and blindingly fast. Before the lead operator could swing his carbine toward the sound of her motion, Rachel closed the distance, her hand shooting out to slap the barrel of his rifle downward just as he squeezed the trigger.
Crack.
The suppressed round punched a clean, supersonic hole through the hardwood floorboards inches from Claire’s hiding spot near the pantry. Evan let out a muffled shriek, but Claire clamped her hand over his mouth, pulling him deeper into the dark recesses of the walk-in storage room.
The operator tried to recover, dropping the rifle sling and reaching for his sidearm with lightning-fast reflexes. But Rachel was already inside his guard. She hooked her heel behind his combat boot and drove her palm upward beneath his chin, catching the reinforced rim of his gas mask with bone-cracking force.
The man stumbled backward, his head slamming hard against the wallpapered hallway wall. The heavy plastic filter of his gas mask cracked, his legs buckling as the air was knocked completely from his lungs.
"Bravo-Two!" the second operator shouted from the porch, raising his carbine as he rushed across the threshold to support his partner.
Rachel didn't hesitate. She grabbed the falling operator by his tactical vest, using his armored bulk as a living ballistic shield just as the second man opened fire.
Puff-puff-puff.
The suppressed rounds chewed into the heavy ballistic fabric of the vest with dull, wet thuds, lifting the unconscious operator off his feet and sending both of them crashing to the floor. Rachel rolled to the side, her shoulder taking the impact of the hardwood, but she was already on her feet before the second operator could adjust his aim for a secondary grouping.
She didn't use a gun. She didn't need one.
With a sweeping kick, she caught the edge of the heavy wooden hall tree where Daniel Hayes used to hang his winter coats. The massive piece of furniture toppled forward with a resounding crash, burying the second operator beneath a tangle of heavy wool coats, umbrellas, and the solid oak frame itself.
The man thrashed beneath the pile, his carbine clattering across the floorboards and sliding out of reach toward the living room rug.
Rachel stood over him, her chest heaving slightly, her hair falling across her face. She reached down, grabbed the collar of his tactical vest, and ripped the comms headset away from his ear with a sharp wrench.
"Who sent you?" Rachel demanded, her voice cold, hard, and devoid of any human warmth. "Name, unit, and objective. Right now, or your next breath is your last."
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The operator—pinned beneath the oak hall tree—let out a muffled, distorted chuckle through his dual-filter respirator. He raised his gloved hands slowly, palms up, in a universal gesture of surrender, though his eyes behind the darkened visor remained entirely unfazed.
"You're a day late, Captain Hayes," the operator rasped through his vocoder, his voice mechanical and flat. "The transfer order was signed at midnight. Meridian Logistics didn't buy the north acreage for timber. They bought it to clear the title on Sector Four. And whatever your father buried in that ravine... it was already dug up three days ago."
